


Misunderstood

by arlathahn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Gen, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Skywalker Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Leia Organa doesn'tgetLuke Skywalker.





	Misunderstood

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very fully aware that lightsabers are not "Force activated", as it were, since Han quite clearly used Luke's in Empire (and Finn in the TFA). However, it _feels_ like something that should be "Force activated", and this is bloody fanfiction, so I took creative license with one line in this fic. If you could not light me on fire for my creative liberties, I'd appreciate my body wholly un-Vadered, thanks!

 

* * *

 

Leia doesn’t understand Luke Skywalker.

From the outset, it’s quite obvious: Luke is a pilot, Leia a princess. Luke is a soldier, Leia a politician. Luke followed the teachings of a religious hermit, Leia followed the instruction of her adoptive father, a bureaucrat. The list stretches and stretches until the reasons are thin, hollow excuses to draw lines in the sand, but the point remains: Luke Skywalker is something of a mystery. And mysteries, in Leia’s experience, are dangerous. Mysteries mean secrets, and secrets cost lives and planets, not to mention wars and galaxies.

Mysteries are meant to be solved, and Leia sets about to do just that.

The thing about Luke though, is he has a deceptive front. Everything about Luke Skywalker spells carefree, sunny optimism, of good-natured charm that trails him like the sand falling out of his cream colored boots. He smiles and he jokes with a kind of easy charisma the likes of which Han Solo would aim for on his best days, and all this Luke excels at without even _trying_. The boy in question seems wholly unaware of his effect on the people he surrounds, just as he remains blissfully oblivious to the evident skill at his fingertips. Leia watches, rapt and attentive, as Luke test-flies an X-Wing with graceful ease, as he holds a glowing sword with no forethought whatsoever to the ancient weapon in his palms and still he walks away with a humble shrug of his shoulders.

Leia would attribute this heedlessness as arrogance or pride, but one look at the teenager Han ruffles and calls “kid” and it becomes equally obvious: Luke takes nothing for granted. His first look at anything even remotely unfamiliar is slack-jawed awe, and just about everything is new for a nineteen-year-old who grew up on Tatooine. The trees lining every crevice of Yavin’s forest moon, the water running freely through its waterfalls, the animal life teeming its many hills and valleys—this is captivating and new to one Luke Skywalker. It’s nothing short of a miracle to his too-blue eyes and sun-bleached hair.

It’s not arrogance that spurs him, and it’s not pride that drives him, but something else. Something foreign and distinctly _good_ , something noticeably absent from his cohort and captain, Han Solo. It’s not special, or even all that unique, but Luke’s sheer resilience to achieve the impossible makes the prospect seem less so, but not through numbers or briefings as Leia’s own instinct suggests. No, Skywalker inspires through his very person, his own being, and Leia can see with pinpoint precision the way others fall in line, the way they gravitate and circle, awed despite themselves and their admittedly small army, and all because Luke Skywalker told them to. All because Luke Skywalker breathed life into a feeling the Rebellion teaches but cannot not truly inspire: hope.

And that is a comfort Leia rarely adheres to.

Leia follows rules and protocols, facts and statistics. Leia studies and she stews and she plans. She may not be a general in rank, but there is no question she is a brilliant tactician, and all this she achieves with ease, without yet having secured the seasoned longevity of her peers. Leia can see the confusion in her commander’s eyes, the question forming in the turn of his brow as Luke enters—Luke with his bright orange jumpsuit and his sparkling silver lightsaber hilt—and announces he’d like to volunteer for the trench run.

They’re desperate, the Rebels, and also staring imminent death in the face, so of course they say yes.

Leia marks the occasion the same way one might mark an important event on the calendar: something to remember, to follow-up on when time allows. There is an enigma festering beneath her skin, a fluke oddity staring back at her with innocent, sky-blue eyes she’s not soon to forget.

Still, she gives Luke a kiss on the cheek to see him off, because for all her musings, she also _likes_ Luke Skywalker. He’s something of a mystery, yes, and dangerous to be sure, but he’s also sweet and caring and warm, too. He’s also their only hope, their savior, and Leia isn’t so cold as to be adverse to the effect of Luke’s easy-going charisma in full force right in front of her, an arm’s reach or a cheek peck away.

Luke may very well perish in those twilight skies, but Leia has seen battles, she’s heard firsthand of sacrifice. Lives will be lost this day, but Luke Skywalker is not among them, she thinks. Not the wildcard flying with natural poise in the pilot’s seat, not the golden-haired stormtrooper who rescues princesses and confiscates battle plans. Not the seeming nobody from nowhere whose sudden appearance is too convenient, too heroic to be the product of mere chance.

Today there is a different battle to win, but someday soon Leia Organa will uncover the riddles of the universe.

And she’ll start with Luke Skywalker: the boy who is more important than he seems.

 

* * *

 

Leia definitely doesn’t understand what happened at the Death Star.

What follows a daring near-death excursion is nothing short of chaotic: there are ceremonies and medals and promotions, there are conferences and briefings and no shortage of paperwork. Everything is bustling with near-unprecedented energy, but after the victory simmers and the adrenaline fades, there is a hollow emptiness that abounds in the spaces where life used to be. The once wide, scrambling cafeteria where soldiers might find comfort in the monotonous, tasteless grub now holds a fraction of its previous tenants, and those who remain feel the palpable weight of the silence as one. This type of sacrifice was planned for, a given almost, but it doesn’t change the fact that something—or several dozen someones—is missing. It doesn’t change the reverent hush that follows when Luke enters the cafeteria and offers a cracked smile so unlike his usual cheerful persona. It doesn’t change the odd, flat pause after one of Han's more mature wisecrack jokes falls flat. There are no words to express the type of heightened existence that permeates every crack of the Yavin IV base, no way to articulate the way everyone appears caught between unbelievable joy and indescribable sorrow, a loss evident in every still-there soldier’s downturned face.

They each have their private thoughts, Leia thinks. They each have a person who died in the twilight sky, or a person who returned forever changed.

For Leia, she thinks of Luke.

Luke, who survived. Luke, who made the shot. Luke, who didn’t need a data computer. Luke, who heard a voice— _a_ _voice_ —that told him when to fire. In a world with superweapons and supervillains, Luke’s sheer power of instinct feels wholly unparalleled, yes, but also—disturbing.

Not as disturbing as torture at the hands of said supervillain, to be sure. Luke is nothing like Vader, nothing like Tarkin. But he’s also nothing like Han Solo or Wedge Antilles, either, and Leia doesn’t much care for wildcards. They’re necessary, at times, but they’re also unpredictable by nature. And despite Luke’s calm, kind appearance, Leia senses an energy there, an unbridled _something_ brimming just beneath the surface. Like a laser inching for a target, or the breath before a verdict, there’s something about Luke Skywalker that screams inevitability—but toward what or toward whom, Leia hasn’t a clue.

So, she sets out to determine just that.

It’s an effort to understand him, maybe. An effort to use him, certainly. Leia is not purely interested in Luke’s usefulness over his person, though the two go hand-in-hand in as far as her job is concerned. If Leia is tasked with protecting the Rebellion, that also includes the rightful distribution of its assets, and to predict or assign Luke is to understand Luke: the charming farmboy who saved the planet and also the galaxy.

The first thing Leia discovers is Luke has assigned himself to the crew quarters, sharing a bunk with Wedge Antilles. It doesn’t surprise her on either front, that Luke would humble himself to the same lowly beginnings as his so-called superiors, or that Wedge would take a natural leaning toward the newcomer with one hell of a killshot. Leia knows Wedge well enough to know he has come to the same conclusion as Leia herself: that Luke Skywalker is one hell of a chess piece, made all the more effective by the fact that he’s an orphaned nobody from nowhere. It’s why Wedge might take Skywalker under his wing and call him a friend, for instance. It’s why Leia sees a wonderful opportunity at her fingertips, for another.

As far as reconnaissance goes, Luke Skywalker is a _goldmine_.

It’s also the perfect excuse to answer some lingering questions. Like whose voice spoke to Luke at the eleventh hour, for a start. Whether he needs to be scheduled for a pysch evaluation, for another. Why did Vader miss _that shot_ , when he’d taken out the rest of the fleet with a single-minded rage typical of which Leia had seen firsthand. _What makes Luke Skywalker different_ , Leia thinks, not for the first time, and sets about determining just that with a single-mindedness to rival Vader’s, though distinctly less villainous by design.

That is to say, Leia sits Luke down one quiet afternoon to complete some reconnaissance of her own.

Or rather, he’s already sitting when Leia corners him, unplanned and unannounced, seating herself gracefully opposite him at the cafeteria table with nary a sound. Luke doesn’t startle easy, but watching the way his eyes curve upwards in slow-motion surprise fills Leia with dim satisfaction just the same.

“Hello, Luke.”

“Leia,” he returns, setting a spoon down with extra care. “Or is ‘your highness’ more appropriate, since we’re back in Republic space?”

From Han Solo those same words would make Leia roll her eyes and sneer, but for Luke, she simply smiles like the sweet princess she sometimes is. “Those who save my life can call me by my informal title,” she says, with only a hint of humor.

Luke shares her taste for jokes, if his tiny half-smile is any indication. There’s a quaint dusting of pink along his cheeks, too. “Well then,” he says with more than a few nerves evident in the way his voice softens, “what can I do for you?”

The way Luke’s bangs fall across his forehead when his head bows is effortless the way everything about him is: carefree and elegant with a dash of authenticity Leia admires, even if another, deeper part of herself knows such is a luxury is one she herself cannot afford. Why she finds it refreshing on Luke when such an open expression would be cause for a curt word or five is perplexing, borderline uncomfortable, but nevertheless the fact remains: like most things about him, Luke is inexplicable. He’s more earnest and less dishonest than most, but it’s not just his trustworthy nature that has Leia curious about who he is and where he comes from. No, it’s the fact that Luke has never been ignorant in the time she’s known him. He’s shouldered his share of hurt, he’s experienced trauma first hand, but instead of becoming a battle-hardened leader like Leia or becoming a cynical know-it-all like Han, Luke remains as open and bright as ever—if a touch more curious about the same knowledge Leia herself desires.

Which brings her back to the topic at hand.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she says, prim and to the point. “You’ve impressed the right people around here, as I’m sure the medallion hanging in your quarters has expressed.”

Luke ducks his head. Leia holds her chin high.

“So I’d like to know what you want from the Rebellion, long term.”

At that, Luke’s head snaps up. “What I want?”

“Yes.” Leia rests a hand atop Luke’s on the table. She’s more informal with Luke than the other soldiers under her command by half, but considering they’ve entered a trash compactor and left more or less unscathed means Leia allows a few walls to slip. Luke has earned that much, at least. “Do you want to be a pilot in the Rebellion, Luke?”

This close, Leia can see the precise moment Luke’s eyes sparkle with unprecedented opportunity. “Of course! I mean, _yes_.” A flicker of enthusiasm, then. “It’s just—”

“What?”

Luke shakes his head, that shaggy mop of hair falling into his eyes. It’s not standard Rebellion custom, but it’s not as though their rag-tag group of misfits has an official code of conduct, either, no matter how Leia insists otherwise. If they’re going to overthrow one Empire and create a new Republic, then procedures of decorum and law alike need to be put forth, and sooner rather than later.

But that doesn’t mean Leia herself is overly conscious about such idle matters. Not now, at least. She recognizes its importance, but for the moment there are far more pressing battles at hand than the length of Luke Skywalker’s sun-kissed bangs.

“When I told you I wished Ben was here, it’s because I don’t really know—what I should do, now.” Luke tapers off, looking at the other pilots and crewmen about the cafeteria with a longing in his eyes Leia recognizes all too well. It’s the same look she’s felt herself, deep inside, when lesson upon lesson of political science stretched her thin. When every book, every trustee meeting, every Organa liaison felt one liaison too many. Leia never had many friends growing up, never knew anybody like Luke, and it’s clear to her now, in a way it wasn’t clear before: Luke hasn’t had any friends like her, either.

“I’ve always wanted to be a pilot, I’ve always wanted to serve,” he continues, looking out over the so-called landscape like he can hardly believe his place in it. “But then I found out who my father was, that he was a guardian of—peace and justice, Ben called it.”

Luke shakes his head again, a smile on his lips, though it appears self-depreciating. Ironic, but not the amusing kind. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Things usually make more sense when our mentors are here to guide us.”

Luke nods. “Everything seems simpler then, doesn’t it?”

Leia smiles a sad smile, brushes a finger along Luke’s thumb in sympathy. His knuckles are rough in a way that surprises her, when everything else about him is soft. Bright eyes, warm smile, smooth hair. Luke is a collection of mismatched puzzle pieces, the picture of which no one, not even Luke, has figured out just yet.

Luke smiles back, and for a moment it’s like looking into a mirror. For a moment, they don’t look so different after all. Then Luke’s eyes turn downward to land on their intertwined hands, his own finger twitching in what looks like carefully restrained impulse. But instead of moving his hand to envelope hers like she suspects, Luke’s mouth moves instead.

“He said the Force would be with me, that’s it’s always _been with me_ , and the thing is—for a moment there, I thought I understood what he meant. I know I felt _something_ , but now, it feels…different.”

Leia has a faint recollection of what Luke is referring to, a memory of her upbringing on Alderaan, from her father's stories. She’s heard distant reports of the Force, heard even more distant reports in the history lessons back home, but this—this is bigger than any one history lesson, bigger than the Republic. Even bigger than her father’s memories, rest his soul.

Still, she has a guess as to what Luke means in this context.

“You want time to figure it out?”

When Luke looks at her, it’s with a mixture of surprise and admiration Leia is familiar with. She is accustomed to breaking the norm, and even more accustomed to excelling at it.

Luke nods, a timid thing.

“Under normal circumstances, I would say the current war takes precedence over personal insights.” Leia doesn’t miss the way Luke’s face falls a degree. His attempt to hide it is decent, but not to her. “But,” Leia pauses, looking to right where the rest of what remains of Red and Gold squadrons are milling about, looking restless. “These aren’t normal times, are they?”

She can see Luke’s smile out of the corner of her eye. The sheer force of that grin feels like it burns, some days. “From what your men tell me, that’s my fault, I’m afraid.”

The sudden change of subject gets her attention almost as much as the admission she’s been looking for. “What do you mean?”

Luke shrugs, still the picture of modesty. “Some of your squad here, they’ve been quick to inform me how impossible that shot was. How unlikely that someone could make it past Lord Vader, let alone alive. It’s a good thing in this ‘circumstance’, sure, but…” Luke looks off too, but not toward the men. He looks off into seeming nothingness, as though searching for the meaning of life amongst the pockets of life invisible to the naked eye. “I’m not complaining, but sometimes it feels like I inadvertently brought doom to your doorstep, too. If it weren’t for me, then…”

For all her musings, Leia never once considered _that_ a possibility. “Luke, that’s not—” she pauses to get her bearings. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

Luke shakes his head, refocusing on the tabletop between them. “No, I know.”

She presses on. “Doom was coming to our doorstep regardless. _You_ were the one who saved us.”

Luke nods again. “Yeah.”

“You’re not alone,” she presses harder.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to say it. She’s crossing about eighteen red lines, nine of which are personal from her standpoint of being a princess from Alderaan and that’s not including her status as Luke’s superior. It just feels like—impulse to reach out, to comfort the boy who, regardless of upbringing and status, did the right thing at the right time in the right _way_ . No matter that she irresponsibly called him an idiot when they first met, no matter that he broke protocol to complete the mission. No matter about the fine details Leia adores, because Luke—he was _right._

When Luke looks up at her again, it’s with eyes so strikingly blue, so invitingly open they appear to see straight through to the heart she keeps buried with a system of checks and balances so impenetrable it feels nonexistent, some days. Inside that heart is a pain she’s been hiding, a hurt she’s been harboring, to a rage that’s been festering. It occurs to Leia then, it wasn’t hope the others saw reflected in that too-soft gaze, and it wasn’t Luke himself either. It was a reflection of themselves, an image of what they _could be_ bundled in an earnest, hopeful package called Skywalker.

But then, when the illusion fades and Luke’s sympathetic gaze returns, he doesn’t look like he hates what he sees. And he doesn’t look confused or upset, either. He still looks forlorn, yes, but not for himself. Not for Ben Kenobi, or the once-peaceful planet of Alderaan. Luke looks sad for _her_ , and that isn’t something Leia has allowed since Vader’s Imperial cruiser first appeared on the _Tantive IV_ radar.

Leia stands up abruptly, the chair scattering along the floor in a too-loud crunch of metal against concrete. Luke looks surprised but otherwise unperturbed, his face becoming an indifferent mask Leia now sees he’s been practicing to better hide his emotions.

It’s not fair to run out on him, she knows, but it’s not fair to add her problems to his, either.

Leia is halfway across the room before she realizes her plan has utterly backfired on every front, and even her now-frail ego cannot let that stand. She half turns back to Luke who is fidgeting with his food, looking like he’s contemplating the best way to impale himself with that lightsaber he adores.

“One last question.”

The sentence is phrased like a command, but her tone betrays the legitimate curiosity. Luke perks up anyway like the good soldier he is, as though he didn’t notice the change, or is simply respectful enough to ignore the slip of authority. Or both.

“Yes?”

Leia looks at the spoon in Luke’s hand, then the blue milk in a small cup near his plate. Hardly a soul here touches the stuff, including Leia herself, but for Luke it’s normal. Typical, even. The beverage itself is an acquired intergalactic taste, she thinks, reserved for the border planets on the fringes of Republic space. It’s a small detail, hardly worth a backward glance or a second opinion, but it just goes to show how unique Luke is, how remarkable that this moisture farmer could bring down a space station the size of a small moon. Staring at Luke and his eccentricities, it occurs to Leia that everything about him should stand out like a sore thumb. He should be the rule, not the exception, but something about his person keeps surprising time and time again. Sometimes in big ways, like the Death Star, and sometimes in small ones, like the milk, but every time Leia feels her heart ache with affection at how natural Luke appears no matter the circumstance. The same person who blew up the Death Star is the same person who drinks odd-tasting blue milk. These two people can and _do_ exist in the same universe, despite all logic telling Leia otherwise.

It seems ridiculously simple, given the unnerving connection she felt just moments ago, still dizzying her battle-tired brain. It is simple and yet, Leia finds, she _likes_ simple. She likes—Luke. She likes the parts she doesn’t understand about him, just as much as the parts she does.

Maybe that’s why she needs to know, from his own mouth, in his own words. “Who was it that spoke to you, when you made the shot?”

Luke looks up at Leia, searching her face before his gaze shifts to the pipe lining the ceiling to her left. He bites his lip, a manifestation of nerves Leia’s tutors would have berated her for, years ago. _Revealing a secret isn’t always about what you say, Princess Organa_ , they used to say, _it’s about what you don’t say, too_.

“Ben,” Luke answers in a rush, as though he’s in a hurry to let the words out. He clears his throat, repeats, “it was Ben.”

Luke stares at the floor, clearly expecting a scolding of some kind, or a mandatory evaluation with the medical droid over in D-wing ordered by the Princess herself. Luke’s instincts are right the way they always seem to be these days, but Leia surprises them both by holding back on the reprimands for now. Maybe it’s the slouch of Luke’s shoulders, maybe it’s the way the confession comes unbidden and honest from his lips. Maybe it’s all of these things and maybe it’s none of them—maybe Luke Skywalker is dangerous for a whole new plethora of reasons, the power of which Leia is just beginning to see firsthand.

“Thank you,” Leia says, and studiously ignores the way those blue eyes light up in surprise and relief. The gratitude Luke dispels so easily is directed in full force Leia’s way, and this for something as simple as a momentary concession of duty. But to a farmboy just shy of twenty, it is as miraculous as guiding proton torpedoes with his _mind_ , as Han so eloquently put it.

Leia may not believe in ghosts speaking from the afterlife, but that doesn’t mean she doubts Luke, either. She’s not sure how to reconcile the two sides of the equation yet, but for the moment, she can allow Luke this one moment of peace. For now, Leia needs to make her lists, bury herself in research, and think.

Luke Skywalker will still be here, breaking flight records and sipping blue milk when she gets back.

Of that, Leia has no doubt.

 

* * *

 

Leia certainly does not understand Luke levitating objects in his room.

It’s the last thing she expects to see when she stops by one random evening after assignments, and this after coming to expect the unexpected where Luke Skywalker is concerned.

The silver lightsaber hilt he’s so fond of is balancing in mid-air when Leia enters—a weapon wouldn’t have been her first choice for levitation, but that is neither here nor there—the object floating some feet off the ground in front of the teenager himself, eyes closed in what Leia guesses is concentration but really is anyone’s guess at this point.

It’s still disconcerting—and perplexing—to see Luke like this, even if the sight isn’t wholly unfamiliar anymore.

The thing is, Leia has done her homework. She’s looked up Luke’s surname, she’s come across the file that confirms what Ben Kenobi outlined for him: his father is indeed Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight, birthdate 41 BBY. Born to Shmi Skywalker on Tatooine, no record of a father. Everything is there, dotted and underlined and signed under the former powers that be.

It’s just that—there’s no record of Luke, either.

There’s records of his guardians, one Owen and Beru Lars, relatives of Shmi. There’s records of Anakin’s presumed death among the countless other Jedi Knights of old, the day the clones turned. Leia suspects some measure of messy documentation is natural, perhaps, during an uprising, but Luke’s age and his parentage suggest he was conceived—or at least carried long before the Clone Wars came to an end. Add to that knowledge Leia distinctly remembers from her lessons that Jedi were not permitted to marry, and Leia has herself one bright, flashing warning sign: another ravel in the mystery that is quickly becoming the most diplomatic, frankly _odd_ family history she has ever had the likes of researching.

Except—it doesn’t make _sense_. More than likely Luke’s omission from Imperial documents is a clerical error, an oversight, except the Jedi connection seems…strange. It feels more like a cover-up than a technical blunder, but why the Imperial army would purposefully omit a potential enemy, or a descendent of a powerful enemy is…perplexing.

But Leia has no grounds to understand the Jedi and thus no grounds to predict their course of action, either. No matter what did or didn’t happen at the end of the Clone Wars, it doesn’t change the fact: Luke ended up without a father on the same backwards planet his father descended from, in a twist as ironic as fate itself, and just as cruel.

Both father and son had humble beginnings, Leia muses.

She hopes they don’t have similar ends, too.

As an added bonus, the Force is a mystery in and of itself, one Leia feels wholly unequipped to analyze on a much grander scale. What little documents remain that didn’t burn in the fires of Coruscant are shaky at best, describing an all-powerful energy that encompasses living things, the likes of which Force-users can manipulate to their aid or adhere to its call.

That, at least, sounds somewhat more familiar.

A few short years ago the myths these scholars prescribe would be written off as just that in Leia’s mind, but after witnessing its might first-hand, after reviewing R2’s logs time and time again, after schooling Han at length to attest—in great detail—his perspective of what happened at that silvered monstrosity at their doorstep, Leia can’t deny the reality. She can’t deny there are events unfolding that are outside her control or comfort zone, just like she can’t deny the floating object of a Jedi Knight hovering three feet mid-air in front of her face.

Luke’s abilities are both plain and very, very vague. It’s both frustrating and compelling in equal measure.

Leia coughs.

Luke startles, the lightsaber falling to the floor with an ungraceful _thud_.

“Wedge, would you give us a moment?”

Wedge salutes with strict professionalism. “Ma’am.”

The door swishes shut behind him, and Luke studies it like he’s been caught red-handed doing something wholly unethical instead of balancing a weapon in mid-air. Which, in Luke’s mind, maybe _is_ wholly unethical. Leia admits she doesn’t know the Jedi code for these things.

“Luke.”

“Leia.”

“Practicing, are we?” She picks the lightsaber off the floor, studies it with feigned interest. Feigned in the context of this conversation, though not feigned overall. Not feigned in regard to the mysteries it holds, the secrets it keeps. Not unlike one blond farmboy sitting across from her, in that regard. “Is there an on/off switch for this device?”

Luke coughs into his fist, covering up a barely contained chuckle. “You know, Han asked the exact same thing.”

Leia almost drops the respected weapon back on the floor. It’s only firm diligence to her royal duties and the Rebellion army that holds the instinct in check. As it is, she levels Luke with her best no nonsense stare, one sculpted eyebrow raised in question, or maybe it’s daring.

Luke coughs again, though it’s with distinctly more laughter this time. “No switch. It’s um—Force activated.”

That sobers the mood considerably. “So that confirms it,” she muses, turning the hilt in her palm, studying its creases and edges. It looks—harsh, for what Kenobi described as a graceful weapon. Maybe no two lightsabers are alike, though. Maybe the owner of this particular weapon—Luke’s father—maybe he had rough edges, too. “Lord Vader is a Force user, too.”

It’s Luke’s turn to make a face. “You didn’t know?”

“We had rumors, but no proof. How do you _prove_ something like the Force?” Leia rolls her shoulders in a barely there shrug. “Most of our soldiers died within moments, and those who did survive didn’t have the presence of mind to inform us whether objects were levitating at the time.”

Luke’s cringe is a subtle thing. “Right.”

“But this weapon confirms it.” Leia hands the object back to its owner. “For better or worse, we are battling a Sith lord.”

Luke sighs, though not unkindly. “One space station down, one Sith lord to go.”

Leia smiles. “Something like that.”

Luke stands from his position on the floor, brushing nonexistent particles off his pants as he does so. Sand gets everywhere, Leia muses, and old habits die hard. “Is this the part where you assign me to duty, commander?”

Leia ignores the question for the moment and moves about the room with a scrutinizing eye, instead. If no two lightsabers are alike, then no two crew quarters are, either; there are always differences in the details, in the nuance between personalities. Some messy, some neat. Some colorful, some plain. The quarters of Wedge Antilles and Luke Skywalker are no different, despite the talent and marksmanship setting them apart in the air and on the ground.

The hinges of Wedge’s bunk are lined with distant photos of family—some Leia has met, some not. Some young, some old. Some here, some gone. He’s a better soldier for it, and an even better ally: he knows the kind of fortitude it takes to protect someone, and the cost of that protection at the bottom line.

Luke, on the other hand, has no such memories. He had everything taken from him, burned the same as Leia herself, and not a hologram or holocron to show for it. No mother, no father. No family history to litter his railings or decorate his bed, no recollection in the archives of the Empire itself. Just—nothing. The clothes on his back and the sand on his shoes and whatever it is that flows in his veins. The Force, the scholars call it. Magic, the people might say.

 _Interesting_ is the word Leia uses. Interesting and perplexing.

“Actually, I was wondering about something different, officer.” If she’s teasing him in the same subtle way he teases her, then no one is the wiser except Luke himself. “Ben Kenobi told you about your father, but did he tell you anything else? A name, perhaps?”

That seems to stop Luke short. “No.” There’s a pause while Luke picks his words. He seems reserved in a way he so rarely is, with Leia in particular. “I used to hound my uncle for information, but he never gave in. Never, not even when—well. It doesn’t matter now.”

Leia pauses near Luke’s bed frame. “And Ben?”

Luke shrugs. “Nothing. He was gone before…”

It’s Leia’s turn to cringe. “Right.”

Luke leans against the opposite bedpost, looking at Leia with a scrutinizing eye of his own. This is how it feels, then. “Why do you ask?”

For the first time in a long time, Leia is unsure how to answer. “Curiosity. I like to know how things work, and _this_ ,” she nods at the lightsaber in Luke’s hand, “is beyond my area of expertise.”

Luke nods, blond hair swaying. “Yeah. Me too.”

“You think it’s inherited?”

Luke studies the weapon in his palms. He turns it around and around, stopping on each black piece attached to an otherwise silver hilt. “On my good days, I like to think so.”

Not the answer Leia was expecting. “And on your bad days?”

Luke shrugs again, but he doesn’t stop staring at the ancient Jedi weapon at hand. “Some days—this doesn’t even feel like _mine_. I can’t explain it—it’s both a connection to something more intense than anything I’ve ever felt, and a connection that’s long since died with the man who carried it.”

“Like it’s not yours,” Leia wagers.

“Exactly. I just feel so guilty, because Ben, he told me my father _wanted_ me to have it, but sometimes—just holding it—that doesn’t feel so true.”

Leia doesn’t know what to say to that. “Maybe you could build your own,” she tries.

That seems to break the tension somewhat. Luke’s shoulders sag, but it’s less sorrow and more a release of pressure. When he looks up at Leia, it’s with a wry twinkle in his eye. “I don’t know if I’ve told you, but I’m not exactly an expert in building lightsabers.”

Leia releases an exhale, bemusement in her eye and the quirk of her lips. “Yeah, me either.”

Luke smiles back, and for a moment everything is perfect and happy, relaxed and warm. But then the silence settles, draws out into something stilted and Leia is reminded, not for the first time, how uncertain the future is. How untested Luke’s abilities, how unqualified.

Both the precise opposite of how Leia prefers it.

But then, Leia thinks, gazing at the soft lines of Luke’s face, they’re all lost. It’s all in the name, she knows: rebellions are more about overthrowing the powers that be than creating new rules in the process, but that doesn’t change the fact. It’s people like Luke who suffer most in this war, stuck in the middle adrift from solid truth and people who hold those truths under lock and key. Seeing his segregation of self firsthand, seeing this gift that should be a blessing but is rendered tone deaf alive and in front of her—this is why they fight. Both for the remnants of Wedge's remaining family as well as Luke’s missing one. It’s not all or nothing, it’s not one or the other. It’s both. It’s always been both.

Restoring order isn’t just about overthrowing an empire, and it’s not just about peace, either. It’s about answering some of the riddles in an otherwise dark galaxy.

And that conquest can start right here, with Luke Skywalker.

“Anakin,” Leia blurts, for no reason at all. “His name was Anakin.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Luke’s harsh inhale is too loud in the silence.

“You—you knew?”

Leia looks into Luke’s light eyes. How it compels her to honesty time and again is a source of magic in and of itself, she thinks. “Only recently. Part of my job is finding that which the Empire would destroy.”

A pause. “It’s the least I could do.”

That seems to perk Luke’s spirits. He nods, lifts a hand as though to reach out, but withholds the impulse at the last moment. An odd fluke of nerves, given his innate talent with impulsive, but genuine action.

“Thank you, Leia.” There’s a tone in his voice, firm yet soft and so utterly Luke it’s a familiar comfort, at this point. Those sun-kissed bangs swirl in his eyes, the dim lighting of the bulkhead making his eyes twinkle like starlight. A trick of the light, but captivating just the same.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, and means it.

There are still a great many things Leia does not comprehend about Luke Skywalker, but this friendship between them, at its core, is not one of them. It’s not something she can put into concrete words, not something she can prescribe and sort with her usual checks and lists. This bond feels free of the usual constricts surrounding her: regulations from her subordinates, deviousness from Han, worry from C3PO. It’s that freedom, that unspoken, gentle caring that transforms Leia into someone she so rarely is, someone she so rarely feels. Someone who became near unfamiliar after both father and planet became little more than an asteroid field for ships to avoid. To trust Luke with something so dear as her raw heart is unsettling, yes, but also—freeing.

Leia doesn’t just _like_ Luke Skywalker. She trusts him.

Leia smiles, genuine in a way she hasn’t felt in weeks, and feels her heart break a little at the sight of Luke’s returning grin. He’s so _bright_ , this boy, and so caring. So talented and undeserving the hand the galaxy dealt him. Leia feels both elated at the sight of him and miserable at the mere thought of Luke Skywalker being anything less than the miracle in front of her: for his life to be reduced to ash, like both their fathers. Just another hologram on the memorial wall. Just another photo on a bulk frame. Just another rock in an asteroid field. It’s not fair to single him out above the rest, Leia knows, but the situation isn’t fair to start. Luke Skywalker is more than the sum of his parts, and this is the lesson Luke teachers her: the Rebellion needs to do better.

 _She_ needs to do better.

All this time, maybe Leia was asking the wrong questions, peeking into the wrong corners. She was so focused on her homeworld, on the central planets—a far-off desert like Tatooine never on her radar, and a farmboy with no home simply a pawn in a much larger game. A logical assessment, but was it right? Luke may not have lost his planet, but he lost his home just the same, and was born into little where Leia had countless resources at her fingertips. It’s not a fair draw, or maybe even a fair comparison, but the fact remains: the power in Luke’s veins can ruin an Empire, and the resources at Leia’s fingertips can get him close enough to complete the kill.

Together, they can overthrow the galaxy.

It’s an ironic twist of fate, then, that Leia is realizing Luke’s importance at the same time a fear is festering in her mind, contemplating the demise of that very same star: Luke is still the most viable answer to the Rebellion’s problems, still the most viable solution to _Leia’s_ problems, but to lose him to the same end as his father is—unfathomable.

And entirely avoidable.

Leia is just beginning to see beyond the lines on the maps, the figures on the board, the statistics on the page, but it feels just as much a failure as a victory. To see Luke’s potential is to fear losing the man behind that same potential, too: they are forever intertwined in some inescapable way, a way that Leia fears may leave a hole more explosive than exists in the wake of Alderaan’s brightest star.

And maybe that is the most terrifying thought of all: knowing they have a chance in hell at actually _winning_ this thing, intermixed with the fear of what will happen if they don’t.

Sure, they can take down enemy cruisers. They can fight stormtroopers and droids. But if the intelligence of her lone surviving officer is to be believed, if the man who calls himself Vader who destroyed half her team on Scarif is the same that cut down Ben Kenobi—Luke’s own mentor—then none of Leia’s well-rehearsed speeches are going to prepare her ground troops for another go around with an evil Sith lord.

Leia looks at Luke now, Luke with is shining eyes and his sad smile, Luke with his blond curls and his indescribable goodness and wonders—maybe even prays—that this is their chance at victory.

Bail Organa once told Leia that everything has a balance. That there is a price to pay for every victory, that there is a cost for every battle. Is this what he meant? Is Luke’s blue sword meant to clash with Darth Vader’s red one? Is she sending this boy to his death? Or is he the key to preparing the way for new life?

And worse, is there any way to know for certain, before it’s too late?

 

* * *

 

Understanding Luke doesn’t seem quite so important, after that.

Leia sends Luke on recon missions with Wedge, she admits travel requests to faraway planets. He returns to Tatooine first, to pay respects to Ben Kenobi. He commands Rogue squadron second, in honor of Wedge’s fallen comrades and friends. He finds journals and learns new techniques and he practices with his blade. He trains and hones and polishes, and Leia is a strange concoction of worried and pleased every step of the way.

And when it is done, when Luke's trips are finished and his training is as complete and whole as it can be—which is to say not complete and not finished at all—Luke returns to the Rebel base.

He returns home.

Leia knows now, she cannot keep him here. The Rebel base will not stay hidden forever, and their fortifications on this newfound ice planet are mere temporary at best. Leia knows this with a sort of innate wisdom she does not fully understand, with a natural aptitude for predicting and avoiding danger that has made her the renowned young leader she is. Some would label it paranoia, or even fear and they’re not wrong. Not exactly. It’s true her pessimism and protectiveness is both the practical application of loss, intermingled with the very real knowledge their entire operation is held by a thread—or more specifically, a person.

A mystery.

When Leia sees Luke now, she does not see just a tool, the last Jedi Knight. And she does not see just a prodigy, an ace pilot for the Rebellion, either. She sees both weapon and friend, but mostly she sees _him_ : she sees Luke. She sees everything he was shaped into becoming everything he will be. She sees his tangible piloting and his intangible Force abilities. She sees his confidence with one and his doubt with the other. She sees him with pilots and friends, and she sees him alone, too; alone and unsure of his place in this story. She sees everything Luke represents for the Rebellion, their symbol of hope fully realized into a living, breathing person, and she sees her own fear reflected back at her: that their miracle of sunny optimism and bright, bright blue eyes might one day burn out.

She sees herself being slowly forced to let go.

And it’s a strange thing to admit because for Leia, one has never been tied to the other. Command and control were always a part of her job description, her personality, her being. To relinquish that precious command for a moment—even a millisecond—could result in catastrophic failure for the rebellion itself. In a fit of dramatic irony, one slip of control might mean the end of freedom itself.

Because first they have to win. And winning takes practical, physical strengths. Winning means space cannons and laser beams and explosions and death. Winning means sacrifice and honor and loss. Winning means chaos, and Leia is the perfect counterbalance to the unfair severity that comes with war, because she was honed and trained in a way Luke hadn’t been, to secure victory with a precise, well-ironed grip.

Leia never envisioned herself wishing she could take Luke’s place, instead.

She wishes she could combine her strengths with his. She wishes she could utilize Luke’s power to fight his battles for him. She wishes she could keep Luke’s innocence intact, wishes she could keep those blue eyes bright and pure and wholly untouched by the harsh realities of war.

Maybe she always knew, from the first time they sat together on the Millennium Falcon, after Ben disappeared. Even in the face of her very own, very recent loss, she felt for him, instead. All this time, Leia has been focused on Luke, for no other reason than a feeling she thought long since hardened at the start of it all. An emotion so central to the Rebellion, so vital to its success. Something lost along the way, only to be picked up again by the most unlikeliest of persons, a soldier less tactically minded and more spiritually inclined. A boy who is her polar opposite in every way, except for the way that counts.

It’s empathy, Leia realizes. The Luke Skywalker conundrum isn’t a conundrum at all, but connection. Affection.

Instinct.

Leia has served and been served, she has fought and been fought for. She knows battles and she knows war, she knows love and she knows loss. But she’s never known both, she’s never had to choose. She’s never been forced to sacrifice, not truly, not at the cost of her own personal interest. She’s never let the personal get in the way of the professional, she’s never deemed herself compromised in any way, shape, or form.

She’s never been tempted to choose one person over the universe.

And that is the real conundrum, Leia supposes. That is the emotion that strikes at the heart of her soldiers, that is the true test of war. The simple truth of the matter has little to do with Leia at all, and more to do with a boy, no older and no younger than herself, who deserves more than a simple life on a remote desert planet, but also more than what this ugly war will shape him into. Also more than a soldier’s life, or a soldier’s death. Also more than becoming a symbol—or worse, a sacrifice—for an unsuspecting, undeserving galaxy.  

Once upon a time, Leia Organa didn’t understand Luke Skywalker.

And now, two years too late, Leia finds that she would die for him.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm [tatooinelukes](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, come talk to me about all things Luke Skywalker.


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